That Which Survives
by Nymue
Summary: [COMPLETE] When the last remaining relic of Avalon pairs together two of the most unlikely people for the Rites of Beltane, the Potions Master and the Gryffindor Know-It-All discover something very interesting.


ANTI-LITIGATION CHARM: All recognisable characters and places related to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Warner Brothers and Scholastic Publishing. Anything else you may recognise (names, characters, concepts) belongs to either Marion Zimmer Bradley or Gaelen Foley. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction. No infringement is intended.

NOTES: Incantations and rituals adapted from "A Witches' Bible" by Janet and Stewart Farrar. I have taken artistic liberties (altering ritual, mixing mythology) with the celebration of Beltane in order to tell this story, but I did want this particular piece to have something of a ritualistic bent (and no one does that better than the Gardnerians) -- just with a twist. Please, no flames.

SECOND NOTES: Italics indicate a flashback. Act breaks indicated by +++ and scene breaks by ***

SPECIAL THANKS: To Claire, for beta reading.

RATING: R

That Which Survives

_Two households both alike in dignity,_

_In fair Hogwarts where we lay our scene,_

_From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,_

_Where lovers blood make lovers hands unclean._

_From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,_

_A pair not lovers doth descry a multitudinous life;_

_Whose misadventured piteous overthrows_

_Doth with their strewth bury their parents strife._

"Absolutely not."

"Severus," the Headmaster chided gently. "It is an honourable tradition."

Black eyes gleamed as brightly as the fire that crackled beside them but unlike the flames, his eyes gave off no warmth. To say that Hogwarts' elusive and slippery Potions Master was livid would not be quite apt -- after all, Potter and Black were nowhere to be found -- but he was dismayed. And more than a little unnerved, a feeling which manifested itself through anger.

"Honourable," he spat as he launched himself out of the chair by the staff room hearth. "She's my student!"

"Only for a few more weeks," Dumbledore pointed out. "And even so -- she is of age, there is no denying that."

Snape snorted.

"Come, Severus," he sighed. "The Rites of Beltane are an established ritual within our world and to be chosen to enact it is a great honour, one very few witches or wizards ever receive."

"And how is it that I and that insufferable know-it-all, out of all of Wizarding Britain, were chosen to partner each other?"

Albus Dumbledore twinkled behind his glasses. "You know as well as I that no one is quite sure how the Well of the Lake works, but if you'd like to debate a few theories -- "

Snape's scowl deepened. "How the last remaining relic of Avalon works isn't my concern, curious though I may be. For Merlin's sake, Albus, why? Why me? Why me with her? Why not choose another partner for her?"

Blue eyes, though still twinkling, narrowed shrewdly. "You do not contest why she was chosen, Severus? Only why you were selected?"

The younger wizard started to open his mouth and issue a scathingly brilliant retort but stopped short and dropped back into his chair with an almost inaudible sigh. He ran a hand through his lank black locks before returning his gaze to the fire, leaving his companion to ponder the Potions Master's sudden and abrupt change in direction. Such mood swings were not unheard of, Dumbledore allowed, but even with the increase in Voldemort's activities Snape had been coping well. Not as well as he could have, but far better than anyone else would have given the same circumstances.

"She's a virgin."

The words were whispered so quietly that at first he wasn't sure if they issued from his thoughts or if his companion had spoken. However, after a moment's pause more followed and the elderly wizard was allowed a glimpse of what had so disturbed his protege.

"She's a virgin. Of course she is. She must be to have been chosen as the Virgin Sacrifice," he continued.

"Severus -- "

"I've done many things, Albus," he whispered harshly. "Many things I am not proud of, though at one time I believed myself to be in the right. I have seen my errors and I do what I must to atone for them even as I commit more atrocities in the game of espionage to do so. I have poisoned, tortured, brutalised, killed and raped ... and I have done nothing to stop others from doing the same. Why, Albus, why have I been chosen for this? Why must I be the recipient of her virginity when it would surely be of greater value to another?"

"Would it, though? I wonder ... "

Snape's head jerked up in astonishment at the Headmaster's words. "What?"

"There is power in virginity, especially a witch's virginity," Dumbledore replied, his voice lowered despite the silencing charms and wards erected around the room. "You think her virginity would be of greater value to another? How can it be, Severus? The very nature of the ritual precludes anyone from taking; only giving is allowed. What is offered is done out of desire -- desire for pleasure, for one another and for the Earth itself."

"But -- "

Dumbledore raised a hand. "I am not finished. The magnitude of the gift is determined not only by the intentions of the pair but by their inherent power. Miss Granger is a powerful young woman who is only going to grow more so as she ages, and I have little doubt that she will be a force not to be reckoned with once she reaches her prime. And you, Severus, are a powerful wizard with the potential to do far more than you think. Why else would Voldemort do as he has? He craves your power for himself and killing you would rob him of it. Conversely, however, he cannot allow you free reign because he knows you have the potential to become a fierce rival or enemy. The power the two of you can create together will be astonishing. With Miss Granger's virginity a factor that astonishment becomes awe-inspiring ...

And given the day, and the ritual, what you could produce will no doubt be terrifying," he finished. "Rejuvenating, refreshing and beautiful ... but terrifying as well. A gift of such magnitude that it will survive even after the earth itself crumbles into dust."

The crackle of the fire broke the only sound in the otherwise silent room as Snape absorbed his mentor's words. Yes, it made sense. The logic was essentially flawless; two very powerful people couple to release virginal energy on one of the most scared nights of the year thus magnifying the amount of magic they would generate. Still ...

"Even if I can accept your logic, why me? Why would a Death Eater -- an admitted killer and rapist -- be a better choice to sexually initiate a young woman than," and here he winced, "Harry Potter?"

"Do you not see?" Dumbledore asked softly. "It is because of what you have done that you were chosen. Harry is a bright young man with a good future, should all go well, but he is still a boy in many respects. You are not a boy, Severus, and I begin to wonder if you ever were. Because of what you have done, you alone will understand the magnitude of her gift and be able to give her the gift of pleasure and acceptance in return. You, Severus, will not trivialise her gift or see it as something it is not; because of your past you can be gentle with her, teach her what those -- dunderheads, I believe you call them -- cannot."

Snape snorted at the Headmaster's subtle agreement as to the capabilities of their students. Well, in one area at least. And it wasn't as if that particular subject was offered; he had the sneaking suspicion that if it were that several lacklustre students would fall all over one another in their eagerness to learn. It might also very well forestall this type of situation, he thought darkly.

"Very well, Albus," he sighed heavily. "I will do this. But when she comes running to Minerva in tears remember that I warned you."

"Oh, don't worry," the Headmaster replied, waving his hand as if brushing aside the concern. "Minerva will explain everything to our Miss Granger, including the post-Beltane etiquette -- such as it is. It's nothing she and I haven't been through before. Sherbet lemon?"

"No, thank you," he replied, his curiosity strumming at the older wizard's words. "I thought you said that no Hogwarts student and faculty have been paired together for the Rites of Beltane in over sixty years."

Dumbledore smile. "And so I did. It has been exactly sixty years since this last occurred."

"But Minerva's only seventy-eight," Snape frowned, his eyes widening slightly as the truth dawned.

The Headmaster chuckled.

* * * * *

Hermione shivered slightly as the cloak she wore snagged on a bramble. The eve of May was warmer here than in Scotland but the air still carried a chill. And given that she had on nothing more than the black cloak with its pretty silver half-moon clasp that Professor McGonagall had draped over shoulders, it was to be expected that she was mentally cursing the brambles as she traipsed through the woods. And as if that wasn't enough she was also barefoot and being led through an old forest by two old women -- hags, she thought -- that she had almost mistaken for Dementors upon first sight. Not that she was surprised by this; no, her mentor and Head of House had provided excellent, if somewhat disturbing, details about what to expect as the night wore on. The only thing upon which the older witch had withheld comment was the content of the ritual itself.

"It's supposedly different for each couple although I'm sure I don't need to explain the mechanics," she said sternly. Frowning, she flicked her wand again and several strands of Hermione's hair began to weave themselves into tiny braids and then coil into a crown atop her head. "The coupling, the actual sexual encounter -- "

"That's not what I meant," Hermione unintentionally interrupted.

McGonagall gave her young student a soft, if slightly sad smile. "I know, my dear. However, what passes between each pair -- aside from the sex -- is unique to them. And I've never known of a Beltane couple who discussed their experience with anyone other than their Beltane partner -- myself and Albus included."

"Is there a geas involved?"

"No, Miss Granger, no geas," she replied. "There's no need."

"Why?"

With an eye toward the past she reached out to tuck the last braid into the heavy coronet before surveying her student. Yes, everything was in place just as it had been sixty years ago when it had been her standing nervously by the fire to keep warm as old Miranda Switch had prepared her for the journey. Only this time the young woman was far more nervous; bad enough to be the Virgin Sacrifice for a man you know and respect and with whom you're on friendly terms, but to go to someone else? What had the Well been thinking? Severus Snape had never made secret his loathing for members of her House -- Miss Granger and Mr Potter in particular. And now the lovely young Gryffindor witch was being sent to off to celebrate the Rites of Beltane with the Head of Slytherin House. It was unheard of. In each instance where a faculty member and student had been chosen, each had come from the same House and to change that now ...

"Professor?"

Hermione's voice brought her out of her reverie. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger," she apologised. "This situation both brings back old memories and raises questions."

"About the difference in Houses?"

McGonagall beamed inwardly at the girl's shrewd tone but kept her voice level as she replied, "Yes. This sets a precedent, I imagine. Or ... "

"Or?"

"Or you and Severus each have something that no one else in Wizarding Britain can lay claim to," she stated. "Something that the Well believes must be brought to the fore and conjoined."

Which was an interesting thought, she admitted to herself as she and her guides moved deeper into the forest. Her terror had quickly abated -- or rather been transformed into mere nervousness. The walk seemed never-ending as they wound their way through the trees, having long since abandoned the path in favour of her guide's memory. Logically, Hermione knew that she had been walking for only about twenty minutes yet it seemed so much longer. Every second seemed to drag and she was hyperaware of each and every part of her body -- from her feet which stung from the rocks, twigs and brambles underfoot to her nipples which had stiffened into hard peaks in the chill night air. Privately she wondered if this was part of the reason for the circuitous route; Professor McGonagall had mentioned that there was a more direct way to the site, one that she had traversed the morning after. Her teacher suspected the walk was meant to calm an anxious woman's nerves but Hermione was unsure if her nerves were lessening or building. She was too hyperaware to be calm but nor was she as near to panic as she had been just a few hours earlier after her meeting with Professor Snape.

If you could call it that, she chuckled to herself. Professor McGonagall had been adamant that they not see one another prior to the ritual -- to the point of extracting Hermione from a petrified Neville and bewildered Harry and Ron before she could enter the Great Hall for breakfast. Afterwards the Headmaster had presided over both the written and practical examination she was to have taken that morning in Potions before excusing her from the rest of the day's classes so that she could rest and prepare. Perplexed, she had done so and found herself closeted with her Head of House for the rest of the day with no contact with anyone else, not even her two best friends who were, she was sure, terribly confused and very, very worried.

Thus when Severus Snape had rapped on McGonagall's door and requested a few words with her the Transfiguration Mistress had not only bound Hermione to the chair, which faced the fire, but erected a barrier that kept the wizard at least five feet from the back of said chair. Not being able to see each other had made an awkward conversation nearly unbearable.

"I cannot say that this pleases me, Miss Granger," he stated stiffly, hoping to put her at ease without relinquishing his authority. "And yet, we will do this. I can only hope that the Well of the Lake has not ... malfunctioned, in this instance."

Hermione's mouth, unseen by her companion, dropped open. Was this supposed to be some form of comfort? If so he was doing a bang up job, she thought sarcastically. Aloud, she replied, "Y-yes, I suppose we will do this."

"Indeed," he said softly and she could practically hear his raised eyebrow. "I cannot tell you what to expect, Miss Granger, as I have been informed the Rites affect each person in a different manner. Therefore, I do hope Minerva has prepared you -- in as much as she can based upon her experiences."

She shuddered at what his words implied as the gravity of the situation began to permeate her consciousness. In just a few hours she was going to be stark naked in a cave and having sex with Snape, the Greasy Git, the Bat in the Dungeons, the tyrannical Head of Slytherin. Not exactly what she had hoped her first time would be, she thought as her heart began to race anxiously, but not as bad as being raped by Death Eaters either.

No, a little voice in her head whispered evilly, you'll just be spreading your legs for one Death Eater. Willingly.

Shut up, she hissed to herself. He's a spy for Dumbledore. I've known that since fourth year.

So?

So what, she thought back grumpily even though she knew what worried her. It wasn't so much that she was going to have sex with her professor, though that in itself was bad enough. No, what made it worse was that just after sunrise the entire Wizarding world would know the names of the witch and wizard who completed the formal Rites of Beltane as directed by the Well of the Lake. Everyone would know. All embarrassment aside, this could prove dangerous for them both when Voldemort was told because the Dark Lord held to the old ways and if the ritual succeeded in all aspects ...

She must have made some sound, a whimper or a cry, because she could hear him calling her name.

"Miss Granger!"

"W-w-what if we ... I mean, what happens i-if there's ... ?" she whispered, trying to simultaneously still her racing heart and hold back tears.

"A child," he asked, his voice dropping so low that it was almost inaudible.

Hermione nodded, forgetting for a moment that he could not see her. "Yes."

There was a long silence during which she tormented herself with thoughts of conceiving a child in the hours to come. It was entirely possible they would do so, she realised. That was the main purpose of the Beltane rituals once all other issues were shunted aside, and she knew from her own brief foray into Beltane research that nine out of every ten couples chosen by the Well conceived during the Rites. This was most likely because no type of contraceptive, magical or Muggle, worked during the ritual if performed in sacred spots and according to the old ways. Such knowledge was daunting for a young woman who not only had little maternal inclination but was living on the cusp of war. A pregnancy at this stage would alter every possibility she had outlined for life after Hogwarts.

The sound of Snape clearing his throat interrupted the silence and broke into her thoughts. "If," he stressed the word, "if as the result of our impending union there should be a child, I will, of course, provide whatever assistance you may require in whatever form necessary. No doubt, however, the Headmaster would arrange for you to be hidden in a safe locale at least until you come to term."

"What about -- "

"Miss Granger, surely you know by now that Beltane-gotten children are looked upon favourably even if they spring from the womb of an unwed witch," he chided. "And given that we have been chosen by the Well to formally enact the Rites, you may rest assured that your reputation will remain unscathed. If anything, there are those who will exalt you for having the courage to bed me."

The wry tone in his voice made her smile she later realised as he bid her goodbye, but had done nothing to calm her nerves.

Hermione stumbled as her guide abruptly stopped, her reverie broken, and she looked up to find herself at the mouth of a cave. The two hags gestured to each other for a moment before leading her inside, down twisting tunnels that wound through damp stone sporadically illuminated by torches set into the walls. They were crude, older and less refined than the ones at Hogwarts and their fires gave off no hint of magic; they were essentially just torches, she realised as she passed another that was barely sputtering.

However, none of this truly had time to register because her guides stopped once more. They had come to the end of the tunnel and she watched with astonishment as one of the old witches lifted a hand to the wall, palm forward, and the stone began to change. It wasn't rearranging itself like the bricks in Diagon Alley but rather the stone seemed to disintegrate outward from a centre point, leaving a crack just wide enough for a man to fit through. Thus it was with much trepidation and prodding from her guides that she stepped through the cleaved stone into the room beyond.

Nothing, she thought dumbly, nothing could have prepared her for what she found when she opened the eyes she had closed just seconds before. The room was large and cavernous and deep within the earth, with strange and curious paintings adorning walls that were much drier than the ones outside. And whereas the outer torches were simple and provided only a weak light to see by, these blazed with a brilliance that both lit the room and cast its dark corners into deeper shadows. The ground beneath her bare feet was cool, dry stone and she felt the warmth of a flickering fire on her skin as she gazed around the cabalistic cave in which she now stood.

Someone had kindled a fire within a ring of stones and she moved towards it as if mesmerised, unable to look away. It gave off no more warmth than had the torches she had been standing by but something inexplicable pulled her away from her guides, drawing her into one of the darker corners. Once past the naked flames that seemed to dance and writhe in the air, Hermione found herself standing beside a flat stone outcropping set low to the ground that had been smoothed by time and covered with furs. It was both primitive and inviting and all at once the realisation that this was where she and her teacher would couple came crashing down like a torrent of rain in a wild summer storm.

Heart pounding in panicked fear, Gryffindor courage forgotten, she turned to flee only to discover that the hags had followed her past the fire -- a Bel-fire, she thought absently, though she wondered why it had been rekindled prior to the ritual -- and now seemed intent on divesting her of her only covering. Logically she knew even as she tried to tug Professor McGonagall's cloak from her guides that she would have had to relinquish it sooner or later but, as the two succeeded in removing the voluminous garment from her clutches, she admitted to herself that she had hoped it would be later.

Once the offending garment was removed from sight Hermione found herself subject to a new sort of humiliation. It was bad enough that she was nude, she thought angrily, so the last thing she wanted was the hags circling her like vultures and twittering to each other as they poked and prodded her ochre and henna decorated flesh. At least she was still masked. She drew back as far as she could and crossed her arms over her chest (as much for warmth as for modesty), an act that elicited laughter from the old witches.

One wagged a finger, scolding the girl silently, but the two backed away and -- to Hermione's surprise -- left the cave after muttering something incomprehensible. However, as the brown-haired witch tried to move past the fire and back into the main part of the cavernous room, she found she literally could not.

Somehow they had bound her to the area beyond the fire.

Outraged, Hermione let out a shriek of rage before beginning to pace back and forth. How dare they! How dare they trap her in this little corner like a recalcitrant child?

Isn't that the way you're acting? her internal voice of reason asked.

She snorted. Perhaps she was being a bit petulant, she admitted as she dropped onto the fur-covered pallet. Moreover, she was displaying an immaturity that rivalled Ron's. Neither she nor Professor Snape had had any choice, really; had they refused they simply would have ended up here by other less-than-pleasant means.

Lost in thought, Hermione barely noticed that she was shivering more violently until she lifted her eyes and discovered that the dark corner to which she'd been bound was becoming darker as the fire slowly died. At first she was confused, but confusion quickly gave way to worry as she remembered that fire died like this only when deprived of oxygen. She leapt to her feet and peered through the encroaching gloom as she tested the wards that held her in check, more worried about dying of suffocation than the strange drumbeats that had been growing louder and more insistent with every passing second. So when a passing breeze brought gooseflesh to her arms and the scent of fresh earth and rain to her nose, it took a moment for her senses to reconcile with her mind, for her to remember that this was a Bel-fire. And although no magic woven by witches, wizards or other magical creatures (with the possible exception of the hags who had bound her to the corner, she thought grimly) would work within the cave, it was not void of magic -- on the contrary, the cave itself was magic. Powerful, ancient Earth magic at that, she thought.

However, her thoughts were interrupted by a whisper of stone just as the last embers faded to grey and plunged the cavern into total darkness. As she moved shakily forward she became aware that not only was she no longer contained, but that she was also no longer alone. The drums to which she'd been so oblivious before now kept time with the pounding of her heart as she searched through the darkness for the man she knew had arrived. And as he came closer still, stopping on the other side of the gutted fire, her thoughts were racing. Would he be different, she wondered? Would he treat her like a stranger or would he be the same old Potions Master she'd come to both despise for his methods and respect for his knowledge?

He unknowingly answered her questions when he spoke, his voice raspy and guttural and a far cry from its usual silken menace. "The Bel-fire is extinguished."

"And the Oak King is dead," she responded automatically, the words she'd memorised earlier falling from her lips as easily as her name. There was comfort in ritual, she thought hazily, because it eliminated the need for awkward conversation. "He has embraced the Great Mother and died of his love; so it has been, year by year, since time began."

"Yet if the Oak King is dead -- he who is the God of the Waxing Year -- all is dead," he responded in that same voice which sent shivers through her body and all the way to her soul as he extended his hands to her across the lifeless fire. "The fields bear no crops, the trees bear no fruit and the creatures of the Great Mother bear no young."

Hermione let her hands cross to his where they hovered in the air before one another, mirroring their bodies -- close but not touching -- as she felt the magic of the cave beginning to coalesce between them. "What shall we do, then, that the Oak King may live again?"

His hands pressed against hers and twined their fingers together. She gave an inaudible gasp at their warmth as he answered, "Rekindle the Bel-fire."

"So mote it be," she whispered, then jumped in fright as the lifeless fire roared to life between them with their hands still entwined as the flames climbed higher and higher until they nearly touched the ceiling above. Hermione's mahogany eyes widened as she realised that although the flames were real and gave off warmth, they caused no pain and did them no harm.

They stood thus for a moment, both captivated by the brilliant fire they had created and both wondering if was an indicator of things yet to come before Hermione had the strangest desire to see him. She stepped back, their hands still joined, and drew him through the blaze into her immediate presence where she felt the heat from the fire twist and resolve itself into an inferno of another sort. A moan escaped her lips as he knelt before her, the mask with its elaborate stag antlers that covered his face obscuring all but his glittering black eyes and his supple lips, and she allowed her eyes to feast on the image before her.

He was well made, tall with a lean musculature hidden away beneath the robes in which he so often swathed himself. And, like her, he too was covered in red ochre ... although if she were honest she would admit that some of it was blood as well, blood from the stag he had killed that night.

The thought made her shudder in a mixture of revulsion and desire and she took another step back but made no move to free her hands.

"Come back to us, Oak King," she whispered as she felt the ancient magic enter her body, winding up through her legs and coursing throughout her body before lodging in her loins and her mind. Once there it seemed to expand, to double, and Hermione began to wonder where all of it had come from -- surely she would have felt that much magic enter her body -- when the answer crashed through her mind from a door that had suddenly been thrown open.

Mudblood. Mudblood they had called her when they learned of her Muggle parents. Malfoy and the others thought her blood tainted and dirty because she had sprung from the womb of a woman with no magical ability. They thought less of her because she had not been born to wizards.

Mudblood. Yes, her blood **was **muddy -- but in a manner most glorious and wonderful, for her power, her magic, came not from years of selective breeding but from the womb of the Earth itself. From the Great Mother who was mother to them all. She was closer to the source of magic than they could ever be because of it, her power was tenfold and more potent, more raw and wild. But she had a will most of her brethren lacked, she realised abruptly, a discipline and a will to shape that power and use it to change the world.

And that was why they feared her. They knew.

Or had known, she amended. Had Slytherin himself known, she wondered? Was that why he had remained so opposed to educating the Mudbloods? It would make sense; the knowledge that those from Muggle families actually had more raw power than those born to wizards would turn the Wizarding world upside down. It would shake the very foundation of what so many -- even those opposed to Voldemort -- believed to be truth.

The knowledge nearly brought her to her knees before the clamouring in her loins brought her back to the present. "Come back," she whispered as she tilted her face down to his. "Come back that the land may be fruitful."

As the last of the ritual words left her lips their eyes locked and a power beyond anything they had felt before blossomed around them. Snape opened his mouth to recite the last lines that would bring them together when he suddenly saw through her mahogany orbs to the power within and, as one, they felt the universe pivot on its axis. The stars in the heavens flared and the floor seemed to fall from beneath their feet as blood rushed in their ears and through the rush of the cosmos they saw --

+ + + + +

"We should be a-stoppin' here," a young woman just barely past girlhood called to her companion, eyeing the crescent moon that already hung in the sky as the last of the day's light faded. "Night is coming on and if we're to reach Glastonbury by midweek ... "

"True, 'tis true what thou sayst," the man with her replied. "Mark us a tree under which to rest, my dear, and we'll stop a time."

The woman pushed a lock of her dark red hair away from her eyes and nodded toward a copse of trees set several yards from the path upon which they'd been travelling. This forest was old and powerful, full of mystery and danger, and she was eager to rest before pushing farther into its depths. She had not thought when they left Camelot that they would be so far from the roads that connected the various villages, but her mentor had insisted that she learn another way to travel in case she should ever find herself in need. And given her history, she thought sadly, it was a lesson worth learning ... as were all his lessons. A smile crossed her face at the thought; she had not expected to find such a kindred spirit, especially not one who would teach her how to use what her father had always condemned in both her and her mother.

Her mother. A gracious and powerful lady who had done the bidding of another powerful lady and married an outlander to ensure peace -- and lived a life full of regret ever since. A life that had stifled her only daughter even more once that same powerful lady had refused to foster the child of the union she'd all but forced. A life so despondent and full of violence and despair that the young girl had thrown herself on the mercy of the knights who had visited her father's keep, begging them to take her before the High King. And so they had ...

Even as she marvelled at the castle the young High King occupied now that King Uther had passed into the mists, the young maiden flanked by three loyal knights could not help but stare at the man across the room. He was older than she, older even than her father, but something in his eyes and in his stance called to her on an unfathomable level. His blue eyes locked with her own and her breath caught in her throat; the room seemed to narrow and all else fell away until it was only the two of them standing there. She was unaware that she had halted the progress of her guides until she felt one tugging on her arm.

"Art thou unwell?" one asked softly, noticing how the sudden pallor of her cheeks contrasted with a deep red that was slowly emerging.

She shook her head. "Nay ... I am well ... but, please, who is that lord?"

The knight followed her gaze. "I see no one," he said with a shrug.

Gasping, she looked up to find that he had indeed disappeared. Panicked at the thought of loosing such a connection before it had even begun, she was about to wrench her arm free of the knight and set off in search of the man when the sound of a throat being cleared brought them around.

And there he was. He was obviously important because all three of her guides made deep signs of respect while she merely stood there in awe, enraptured by the power she could feel coming from him, power that called to the power coiled within her as well. It was a moment of awakening -- her mother had once said that the call of Avalon was such an awakening and now she knew what her mother had meant. She knew this man, knew his heart and soul though never before had they met in this life ...

"Who art thou?" she whispered.

The man smiled while her rescuers seemed appalled not only at her lack of knowledge but at her lack of respect. One of them seemed to flounder for words while another sputtered, "The King's most trusted advisor ... the greatest wizard ... "

"I am Merlin," the man interrupted, waving away the indignation of the knights. "Thy charge is to be forgiven her lack of knowledge for she is newly come to Camelot, methinks -- I would have remembered had I seen her likeness before."

She blushed as she realised it was not her face to which he referred, but the power that had so confounded her parents.

"Tell me, Sir Pelleas, of this young maiden. How is she called?"

"The daughter of Diones, my lord," the knight who had questioned her earlier responded. "She doth seek an audience with the High King."

"Diones," Merlin said softly as he stroked his beard. "A minor if somewhat outspoken baron in the northlands. And a Christian, I believe."

At their confirmation he nodded, his eyes studying her shrewdly. "Aye, 'tis clear that you would wish to leave his house."

His words moved something inside of her and she pulled away from the knights and gazed into the blue eyes that so captivated her. "'Tis true, I am the daughter of Diones," she admitted. "But my mother was a Priestess of Avalon and wed him only at the bidding of the Lady of the Lake."

"Yes, I remember," he replied. "The lady was called Rhonwyss and many felt that she should hath refused. Vivienne and I quarrelled over it. And you, daughter of Rhonwyss? How art thou called?"

"Nimue," she answered. "I am called Nimue."

"What brings such a bloom to thy face?" Merlin asked as he settled beside her underneath the hawthorn tree. He was nearly too old for this, he thought sadly. And yet seeing Nimue learn to understand and use her power more than made up for all the inconveniences it had caused, from the physical hardship to the violent quarrel with Vivienne. Merlin sighed. The Lady of the Lake, his ally of old, had raged when he explained that he and Nimue would be leaving Camelot together so that the young girl could learn to use her gifts. Igraine's sister had told him that Nimue would be his downfall and he had laughed, offering in return to forgo teaching her himself if Vivienne would take her to Avalon as she should have years earlier. Then the Lady had become distant and refused, saying only that allowing Nimue to develop her gifts -- foremost among them the Sight -- would bring about the disaster they were trying to avert.

Nimue cast her face up to the white blossoms and held out her hand to catch the flower that fell from an upper branch. "'Tis naught but the memory of thy face on the eve of our first meeting, nothing more. I felt then as I do now that I hath known thy soul forever though we hath only the sight of each other since just before Samhain."

"And 'tis nearly time for the Rites of Beltane once more," he acknowledged. "But we have met before, Nimue, in another life."

"And we shall meet again in our next lives," she laughed suddenly, her fingers tracing out the moon's shape on the dusty ground. "At least in three of them, by the reckoning of Queen Morgause."

Merlin stiffened beside her. "Beware Morgause. She is ever plotting against us though we've naught with which to charge her, placed as she is at the side of King Lot of Orkney."

"Is she so dangerous?"

"Oh, yes," he sighed. "For years Vivienne and I hath read the signs that tell of the destruction of our ways, prophecies that foretell Avalon's disappearance from our world as the outlanders continue to force the New Religion upon our people. We sought to prevent it first by ensuring Arthur's birth, then by ensuring that his heir would be raised without the interference of bishops. But Morgause has put her own ambition above the welfare of Avalon and I fear we shall fail ... "

"But Merlin, Arthur has no heir. He hath no children at all for his wife is barren," she protested. "Though some are a-sayin' she is cursed," she added thoughtfully.

The old wizard shook his head sadly. "I am not proud of my actions, Nimue. Arthur **doth** have an heir -- Vivienne and I arranged for a child to be conceived during the Rites of Beltane before to his marriage Guinevere. Thou will only know him as Sir Mordred."

A frown crossed Nimue's face. "But he is the natural child of Queen Morgaine, the daughter of Gorlois of Cornwall and now wed to King Uriens of Wales. He was raised by Morgause while his mother attended the court."

"Aye."

In the moments that it took for the inevitable truth to dawn on the young woman, an immensely tired Merlin once again regretted his actions. If only they had stopped to think ... if only ...

"But they art brother and sister," she whispered, horrified. The only response was the sound of the trees swaying in breeze for her companion, her mentor, her lover in spirit if not in flesh, had fallen asleep. Desperate to understand, Nimue opened herself to the Sight with which she'd been born, looking to the past for the threads that he and Vivienne had altered -- searching for what should have been.

The answer shocked her.

Mordred should never have been born, she thought as she glimpsed the path's original confines. Arthur was to have married Guinevere, yes, but Morgaine -- ever on alert to her brother's well being -- would have discovered the curse set on the High Queen by Morgause (so that much was true, she thought) and taken steps to remedy the situation. Vivienne and Morgaine would have dealt with their treacherous relative in Avalon thus sparing Arthur the politics of executing his aunt and the wife of a fellow ruler. Freed from the curse, Guinevere would have provided Arthur many children -- including an heir that would have followed in his footsteps by maintaining a balance between the old and the new -- and in time her passion for Sir Lancelot of the Lake would have faded away into a slightly wistful what-might-have-been. Lancelot, in turn, would have put aside his feelings for the High Queen out of respect and love of his cousin Arthur. Eventually the knight would have turned to Morgaine, fathering her children and creating a line of powerful men and women who would stay true to Avalon.

And Nimue herself would have been taken from her father's house as young child by her own mother, who would have returned to Avalon after providing Diones with an heir.

As if this were not a fierce and terrible thing to learn, her Sight shifted itself accordingly and Nimue's terror grew further still as she grasped the outcome. All this time, she thought as horrified sadness mingled with anger, all this time they've been trying to prevent a catastrophe that they will have caused in so doing. For had they not meddled, the end foretold in prophecy would not have come to pass.

"But time still be with us," she whispered to herself, clambering to her feet as quickly as she could. Dusting off her dress she turned sable-brown eyes on her beloved and, as she stared, a feeling a despair flooded her heart.

He would not believe her.

Oh, yes, he might believe what she could tell him about what should have been, but he would not believe her if she told him that things could still be fixed. He would not want to meddle further but let nature take its course; the Great Balance would reassert itself in time. "Magic survives," he'd once said to her. "Even when we fail it continues and in time puts all things to right."

"Goddess, help me," she moaned even as she began to assemble the ingredients she would need, an answer most terrible reaching the forefront of her mind from its tiny resting place where it was nestled among things to be done only in the most dire of circumstances. A green twig snapped from a branch of the tree, her dagger, a lock of his hair and a bowl of water. Nimue nearly sobbed aloud as she encircled the tree with the water and the tears were falling freely as she tied the hair to the twig and placed it inside the circle. Carefully, she cut deeply into her left palm and watched as the blood flowed from the wound to pool on the ground as she chanted, her voice breaking as Merlin opened his eyes and stared at her in horror. But before he could say anything he had disappeared, leaving a sobbing Nimue to stare at the hawthorn where she had entrapped her love.

"Forgive me, my love," she whispered as she embraced the tree and ran her bloody hand along its bark. "'Tis the only way. Please, please forgive me ... until our next life, Merlin ... "

It was only weeks later that Nimue truly understood the breadth and consequence of her actions, for when she finally reached the gates of Camelot she learned that Arthur had ridden away to face Mordred and that both Vivienne and Morgause were dead. And as she climbed the high parapet that overlooked the surrounding meadows she felt her heart break -- by binding her love to a tree she had delayed her return and deprived a weary and confused Arthur of the venerable wizard's counsel. All that they had sown would indeed come to pass, for in trying to fix the future she had made the same mistake they had so many years ago ...

+ + + + +

This was truly intolerable.

That was the thought of the irritable and elderly wizard who had condescended to follow a page throughout the draughty fortress occupied by Muggles. Only his appreciation of Remeult's position among _La Noblesse Magique de France_ had prevented his refusal, something he was now regretting. When had he allowed himself to become so involved with this younger generation? Hadn't he sworn when he left Scotland to never again to emotionally attach himself to one of his children or his children's children?

He stopped with a grimace when the page hesitated in a partially open door. "Stay or go, lad, but move," he hissed. "I am unfortunately expected."

"B-but ... "

Snorting, he swept past the boy and through the door into the room only to stop when confronted with the person whose request -- Remeult's request, he again thought with a sneer -- had summoned him from his well deserved retirement. She was not a beautiful woman, he finally decided after a frank perusal throughout which she stood firm and studied him as well. Still, there was a certain pleasantness to her features. However, what truly attracted and repulsed him in equal measures was the power he could feel rolling off of her in waves. It was no wonder the French were willing to accept her, he thought idly, her other attractions notwithstanding.

"My lord," she said carefully, as if knowing how displeased he was to be in her presence. "I am -- "

"I know who thou art, Matilda of England," he interrupted. "Or Maude, as I hath heard you called. You claim the English throne for thyself even as thy cousin, Stephen of Blois, sits upon it."

Her eyes flashed angrily and he saw quite clearly why the Muggle bishops and lords in England so feared her -- she would be no puppet ruler through which they could advance themselves. She would rule alone or she would not rule.

"Very well," she replied, casting aside the usual polite formalities. "I shall come to the reckoning. I know thou as well, Salazar Slytherin, and I hath need of your counsel."

He laughed mirthlessly. "And why then should I help a Mudblood witch? And one with little learning at that?"

Matilda pleated the folds of her dress with her fingers as she reigned in her temper. It was not the first time she had been privy to that term but it still rankled. Who was he to pass judgement on her pedigree, she who was the grandchild of the man called Conqueror? "I hath need of your counsel," she repeated. "My father was a sly and cunning man but he was no wizard, nor was he a woman ... he had not the Sight to anticipate my current ... difficulties."

Despite his loathing Slytherin was intrigued by the situation, though he felt singularly uncompelled to offer aid. "Aye, difficulties. Now that thy husband lies rotting in the ground and 'tis clear he gave you no heir then thou art free to wed again. Only ... if thou weds a man who wins the approval of the English lords thou willt never rule in truth. But if thou weds the Comte d'Anjou -- as 'tis rumoured -- the English lords will withdraw tribute and declaim you."

"My dilemma," she acknowledged.

He smiled cruelly. "And then 'tis Stephen of Blois, thy cousin, also a grandchild of King William."

"Only through Tant' Adela," she said tightly. "They favour him because he is a man."

"And he will do their bidding," Slytherin pointed out. "Their interests are essentially mutual."

Matilda snorted, a most unladylike action that unknowingly gained her her first favourable impression by the wizard.

"And yet," he mused as he crossed to stare out of the window hidden behind an arras. "Thou seekest to do the same as he."

She arched an eyebrow and waited.

"Stephen claims the throne through his mother, Adela, daughter of the Conqueror," Slytherin pointed out. "Thou contests his claim by virtue of the fact that, while thou art female, thou descends through one of the Conqueror's sons. And yet if thou succeeds thy sons will claim descent through a woman."

Matilda lifted one shoulder, both an acknowledgement and dismissal of her hypocrisy. "So long as I and my children rule."

"In either case the succession will follow a maternal line," he chuckled. "How those Muggle lords and bishops must twitter and shudder."

The derision in his voice when he spoke of those without magic angered Matilda but she could not disagree with him. Not only did she need his aid, but in this instance he was all too accurate. " 'Tis true."

"Why then, madam, doth thou seek my counsel?"

"I seek thy knowledge," she whispered, "I seek that which will grant me what I desire. From my father I learned the ruthless cunning of the courts ... from thou I wouldst learn how to control my enemies and secure my destiny. Magic will survive where a man cannot."

Had she been anyone else, Slytherin acknowledged, in that moment that he would have aided her. Her ambition and lust for power matched his own and the power ... by the gods the woman had power. Too much power. He repressed a shudder; were he to give her what she wished she would take not only the Muggle throne of England but its Wizarding world as well. And however much he had quarrelled with the others he would not subject them to this. Besides ...

Knowing that he could not simply leave -- damn Remeult anyway -- he turned his eyes to the sky and looked beyond what was to what-would-be. As his eyes glanced over the slender silver arc that shown luminously in the night shy, his old but still sharp wits gave him the answer to his dilemma -- and hers.

"Three days hence the moon will be dark," he began. "During that darkness thou must decide if thou art to wed the Comte d'Anjou, for the path will not be clear until that obstacle hath been removed. When the moon is full, send for me again and we shall see ... what we shall see," he finished, knowing that in a fortnight he would be not only have secured Remeult's place but positioned them both outside of her reach.

Slytherin turned to go but was interrupted by Matilda, who asked, "Is there aught else?"

The wily wizard cocked his to one side as if considering. "Thou shalt triumph, Matilda of England, but beware the shadow of an axe."

And with that fate swept him from her presence and her life.

+ + + + +

The stone walls were damper here.

The air was colder as well and she shivered as she drew her cloak closer around her petite frame. Silence was pervasive in the chamber although she could hear the cries of others on occasion ... like today, when the crowds of London had gathered on the Hill. And unlike her previous internment she had not even been granted a fire for warmth.

After all, a traitor awaiting death didn't need one.

She snorted. No, the lack of fire had been Mary's doing otherwise the Lieutenant would have laid one for her. The Queen wanted her to suffer as she had before loosing her head.

And suffer she had, though not in the way Mary Tudor had expected. No, what had tormented Susanna Montague was not the chill air or even the certain knowledge of her death, fearful though she was of the headsman's axe. What twisted her insides into knots and drove her to tears was the simple fact that she had been betrayed by the one person in whom she'd placed her trust. The man whose bed she had defied her family to fill, the one who had pledged her his love and unwavering support after she'd shared her most closely guarded secret.

The wizard who walked in two worlds.

"Ye gods and goddesses," she whispered softly. "What kind of Slytherin am I?"

No kind apparently, she thought ruefully as she rubbed her arms with her hands. Which was why the Hat had put her in Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin despite centuries of family tradition. And it was the influence of her Gryffindor friends -- something she doubted she would have had if she'd been Sorted into Slytherin -- which led her onto the reckless road to the Tower.

It had started so innocently, with a trip to the home of a half-blood classmate whose Muggle father had been a member of their nobility. There she had met the youngest of Alice's older brothers and fallen into what she thought was love, scandalising her family further when she agreed to spend the summer after her last year with her friend. But as the youngest child and one that was unexpected to boot, she had been indulged and the subject of an alliance through marriage was never raised. Hence she was free to convert her galleons and journey into the Muggle world at the time of her choosing. And it was there that she had met the two people who changed her life forever -- Alice's eldest brother, the man to whom she so quickly lost her heart, and a red-haired young woman named Elizabeth, whose very nature stirred Susanna to the depths of her soul.

Caught between the two, Susanna had unknowingly spent three years playing a very dangerous game. It was only when the armed guards had caught her unawares and arrested her for treason that she discovered his deceit.

Half-blood or no, he was a Slytherin through and through.

And while she had willingly given him her heart and her body it was Elizabeth who commanded her loyalty.

"Susanna."

She forced herself not to react. So lost in thought was she that she had not been aware of the door opening and closing to admit the one person she both loved and despised, the man that she longed to embrace in one moment and hex to perdition in the next.

When she finally turned and faced him she had regained her composure. "Hugh," she said evenly. "Are you then my escort?"

"Nay," rasped Hugh Wycliffe, fifth Marquess of Carnarthen. "Nay, Susanna. I come with an offer -- "

"An offer?" she laughed mirthlessly. "From Mary? Pray tell me, my lord, what service you rendered that lunatic that she would spare my life?"

He grimaced and looked away.

"Let me ponder this," Susanna continued. "I must apologise -- publicly, of course -- and vow to sever all ties to Elizabeth. Mayhaps I must also name other supporters as well? And then, if she is satisfied I am not a heretic, I must be removed from her sight. Is there aught I missed?"

Hugh shook his head slowly.

"Then no, my lord, I refuse her offer of clemency," she said firmly. "I will not give up Elizabeth's other allies nor will I deny her -- but neither will I admit that she was involved and the monster who sits upon England's throne has no proof."

"Mary Tudor is the right queen of England, not that bastard girl."

Susanna raised an eyebrow and coolly replied, "I would have thought you, my lord, would be more sensitive to her plight given your own heritage. Or is that why you loathe her so? She reminds you that there are those who consider **you** a bastard. The Lotts will not acknowledge that your mother wed a Muggle even when all but one of her children are magical and -- "

Hugh's face turned red as he snarled, "'Tis not about me, 'tis about Mary and her right to the throne. She is -- "

"A fanatic, a zealot," Susanna spat, her hands curling in on themselves. "And even now the people whisper against her as they dared not before. She cannot hold England, Hugh, dost thou not understand? Even if you put aside the burnings, the Spanish Alliance was none too popular among her subjects **especially** as there is no heir -- except Elizabeth."

Hugh stared, shocked from his obvious anger by her aptitude for intrigue. "How came it that the Hat believed thou were more fit for Ravenclaw House?"

"I may not like it or be any good at it, but I come from a Slytherin family that has long played the Game -- I understand it," Susanna sighed, defeated. She unclenched her hands and massaged the marks left by her fingernails, absently noting that one semicircle was a touch lopsided and looked like the waning moon. The result of a nervous nail-biting habit, she thought.

Her once-lover sighed heavily and leaned his forehead on the door. "I wish that you would reconsider, Susanna," he whispered.

"I cannot," she uttered softly.

"Then I cannot give you this," he murmured sadly, drawing her wand from his sleeve.

Susanna stared, shocked by what she was seeing and hearing.

"Had you agreed to Mary's terms," he continued, "I would have returned you to your father. As you hath refused, he hath requested that I leave you to the fate you have chosen -- and that I return your wand to him so that he may break it according to the tradition that allows him to repudiate your very existence. Nothing of you will remain.

"I hope, Susanna, that you are content with your choice."

"Yes, it will," she immediately contradicted, ignoring his last line to concentrate on the one before it. "Magic always survives and we who are born of it send a piece of ourselves with it when we die."

His green eyes flared for a moment before her wand disappeared along with her lover, both exiting through the heavy bolted door. When he was gone she turned to window and stared out, a single tear tracing its way down her cheek. "In our next lives, my love," she murmured. "Until then, fare thee well ... "

+ + + + +

-- what had been.

As they felt the universe pivot once more Hermione blinked rapidly, aware that although she had never left the cave -- let alone closed her eyes -- she had somehow been present in each of the encounters they had witnessed. Yes, they, she realised, for in his eyes she saw a reflection of her own emotions. They had lived and loved and argued and betrayed each other before, each meeting foreshadowing that which was to come, all leading up to this moment.

Understanding that the moment they inhabited was beyond the past or present, Snape slowly and huskily spoke the final lines of the ritual. "I am a stag of the seven tines," he decreed. "I am a wide flood on a plain … I am a wind on the deep waters … I am a shining tear of the sun … I am a hawk on a cliff … I am fair among flowers … I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke."

The flames of the Bel-fire flickered eerily as their hands, still entwined, moved upwards to lift off the heavy antler-laden mask that kept him hidden from her gaze. As it tumbled to the side he stood and stepped forward, bringing them together. Hermione failed to repress a moan as their fingers brushed first her shoulders and then her neck before tangling into the coronet of braids to unfasten the hammered bronze mask behind which she had hidden. When it had joined its mate on the floor they gazed on one another with new eyes, each seeing something in the other that they had somehow missed or ignored.

And as they stared they became aware that they were no longer simply standing but stepping to the beat of the drums, their feet moving in a dance as old as time. The need to move was overtaking their will to stay still and they danced, mirroring one another's movements as they moved around the Bel-fire. Hips swayed in time to a tune only they could hear, and had any onlookers been present they would have seen two people cast off the last of their inhibitions and dance within and around the flames of a tumultuous blaze. Hands clasped, arms locked and feet danced as sweat beaded on bare skin only to fall to the ground or dissolve in the air.

He was not perfect; she knew this. And yet in the moments that existed outside of time itself he **was** perfect. No one else could ever have matched her as well as he did and Hermione thrilled to the sure and certain knowledge that she had found her other half. Soulmate was too common a word to describe what they were; they were no more and no less than two powers that had met before and would meet again because they belonged together. Pieces of what was had survived the ages to form aspects of their whole. She understood this; they were the past and the future but they only existed in the moment. The past had shaped them, informed them and taught them but it could not define them because it did not matter. And now that they knew this, she thought as his lips brushed her shoulder, now that they understood they could move forward.

As she twirled and writhed, unconsciously mimicking the flames, he watched and shadowed her every move. Where once this would have been anathema to him it was now everything he could desire and he laughed aloud as he realised that Dumbledore was right -- he had been chosen for this because of his past. Just not for the reasons the venerable old wizard had purported, though he had been correct there also. And while the past had brought him to this point he felt its shackles fall away as he she turned and beckoned to him through the flames. They had learned the lessons, lived lifetimes in seconds, and now that they understood the mystery they were free to truly join together as they never had before. It didn't matter that this perfect union could only exist outside of time. All that mattered was her, touching her, tasting her, worshipping her as he had longed to do ...

Hermione was gasping as she spun round and round, her feet carrying her through the flames in one last arc before she collapsed breathlessly onto the fur-covered pallet. Glassy mahogany eyes met shimmering sable as her partner knelt before her once more, his long and elegant fingers trailing up her legs and parting her thighs as she reclined on her elbows. Then he leaned in, his mouth trailing kisses as they followed the path his fingers had just seconds earlier. And as he hovered over the folds over her sex he glanced up, their eyes locking once more as he whispered, "Assist me to erect the ancient altar, at which in days past all worshipped …"

Heat raced through her as he pressed his mouth to her sex and laved the tender flesh with his tongue, passion curling through her and lodging not only in her loins but in her soul. Hermione shuddered at the intimacy of the act as he whispered against her womanhood, his voice throaty and full of emotion. "The great altar of all things, for in old time Woman was the altar … "

This time when he looked up to catch her gaze he found in them an invitation and watched as she moved backwards, once more beckoning him closer. Snape seemed to slither upwards from his knees until he too reached the soft sanctuary on which she rested, their eyes communicating what words could not. When their faces were only inches apart when she closed the gap by sliding her lips over his in a kiss to seal the mutual understanding between them. The shudders that tore through his soul at this simple act intensified as she lay back on the soft furs with her knees bent and spread wide, allowing him to glimpse that she was indeed completely covered with runes etched in red ochre. The ancient primal power that coiled with her called to him as he curled his knees beneath his body and stretched out to fondle the delicate folds of her sex, his mouth once more seeking out that which would give her pleasure.

"Altar of mysteries manifold," he whispered as he caressed soft lips dewed with a woman's most intimate honey, unable to stop the words from leaving his mouth although he knew that in truth they were not needed. Once the Bel-fire had been rekindled none had been necessary but he wanted to utter them, to shower her with the worship she deserved. "The sacred Circle's centre point -- thus do I sign thee as of old, with kisses of my lips anoint. Open for me the secret way, the pathway of intelligence, beyond the gates of night and day, beyond the bounds of time and sense. Behold the mystery aright … "

Hermione tossed her head and moaned as he nuzzled his way among her most sensitive mound, the heat in her loins feeding the unending and ever growing power that was forming within her soul. Never, she thought hazily, never had she expected it to be like this ... this wonderful, terrible, beautiful pleasure that brought her blood and her power to a fevered pitch. Her body was wracked with spasms as his lips closed over the seat of her fleshly desire and she shuddered in ecstasy, falling a thousand times through a rapture so large and fulfilling that for a moment she wondered if this would be enough. The power within them was rapidly expanding, pulsating and pressing against its cages but unable to break through. Their desire was so perfectly matched, so fused, one to the other that she felt herself soar on wings of molten heat and gaze upon a thousand of her pleasures as he once more worried her tender pearl until she rode the crest of the wave of passion until it crashed upon the shore.

She gasped as she opened her eyes to the cavernous room and discovered that the room was fairly pulsating with power, **visible** power that was striving towards its ultimate destination. Although she knew the vast majority of it was still centred in their souls the cacophony of magic in the cave was no less beautiful. Each climax fed the throbbing power but they both knew that more was needed, that only the ultimate union of body and soul would create the wondrous marriage of their separated selves and fulfil the promises of yesteryear. With the beat of the drums echoing in her ears she reached for him again, drawing him up her body until their lips met in a smouldering kiss that scorched her very soul and ricocheted into his. The result was a deepening kiss, one that opened the doors to the primal energy that burned deep within and she arched beneath him to urge him on to the ultimate union.

He quivered as he uncurled his legs and stretched himself out above her, his lips brushing hers as he murmured, "Here where the Lance and Grail unite, and feet and knees and breast and lip."

He groaned into her mouth as he gave in, sinking into her moist heat with an eagerness that overshadowed any previous pleasures and any yet to come. Hermione let out a guttural cry when he was sheathed within her. She was finally whole, gloriously joined and it was so wonderful that she knew that nothing she had ever imagined could compare. Then he moved and the pleasure of their union altered to become a true joining, a merger of souls and power as they slipped into one another and delighted at the trust and power that they discovered. Hot primal need flared as they approached the peak of their desire, and as they tumbled together from the heights of sheer ecstasy in a blazing ball of fire they were suddenly one being finally made whole. And it was as the import of this marriage took root that they felt the power trying to erupt from deep within themselves and pushed it outwards, away from their souls.

The power flew out into the cavern but was caught by the ancient etchings on its walls and transformed as it was flung back and joined to the Bel-fire where the two sets of power mingled and were made one. Streaks of fire stretched from within the conflagration and travelled outwards from the centre, twining together and mingling around the two lovers finally made whole. Hermione screamed for them both as the flames consumed them, as they fed the fire with their passion and desire and tumbled once more into a sea of rapture while flames climbed higher and higher, urging the mated pair onwards and upwards.

It was only as they burst forth into the darkness that was somehow bright as well that they felt the universe tilt once again, leaving them breathless and careless as they sank into the abyss.

* * * * *

When she finally opened her eyes, Hermione was unsurprised to discover that the lingering ephemeral traces of power that clung to she and her lover had dulled the ache between her thighs. Magic is magic, she thought giddily as she tried to sit up only to find herself draped across Snape's chest, too weak to pull herself upright. Not only that, but all her insecurities seemed to have vanished as well. Well, not all, she amended; but the knowledge that everyone would know of their union no longer seemed important.

As she gnawed thoughtfully on one of the tiny braids that had worked itself loose she noticed that Snape was awake and watching her, his eyes drinking her in as if she was an exotic and volatile potion. She tilted her head to the side and allowed their eyes to meet before she spoke. "There will be a child," she pronounced solemnly.

"Yes," he acknowledged, knowing as she did that the power that they generated in the hours just before dawn had done more than seed just the earth. And given her age and his family's potency ... "I will do whatever you feel is best."

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she whispered, "They say that those who do not learn from the past are condemned to repeat it. I don't want to repeat it, especially not now."

"Nor do I," he responded as she felt one of his hands settle in the small of the back, the other lifting to brush a few stray hairs from her forehead as he focused on the tiny crescent shape just below her hairline. That is not simply red ochre, he thought as she stretched languidly, not anymore.

"Together, then?"

"Yes, Hermione, we'll face the future together."

END

**ENDNOTES **

_The HG/SS "It's All Been Done Before" Challenge on WIKTT required at least three vignettes in the past as well as a phrase and object that spanned the years. In this case the phrase is "magic survives" (or some variation thereof) and the object is actually a shape -- a crescent. If you missed it -- in Act I it's the clasp on McGonagall's cloak; in Act II, Nimue traces the shape of the moon above on the ground; Slytherin sees the crescent moon in Act III; in Act IV, Susanna notices that one of her nails has left a half-moon shaped indention in the palm of her hand; and Snape sees a crescent marking just below Hermione's hairline at the end of Act V. _

**ACT I & V:** Yes, I bastardised Shakespeare ... may the Bard forgive me! As I mentioned at the start, I have changed the typical Beltane ritual (omitting, altering, etc.) to tell the story -- I know what I've done so there is no need to email me the correct version/way. What was done was done with forethought and planning. As to the end ... well, you get to decide what they mean by together (lovers, platonic, deep friendship, etc.) because I'm not writing a sequel. Should someone from WIKTT wish to, let me know and we'll work something out.

**ACT II:** I'm using Marion Zimmer-Bradley's interpretation of Sir Thomas Malory's _La Morte d'Arthur_ as the basis for this act, although I don't think she mentions Nimue. Then again, it has been some years since I've read _The Mists of Avalon_. Most scholars/historians/folklorists now believe that Nimue and Vivienne were the same person, i.e., the Lady of the Lake, but I've based this on other works that suggest that they could have been separate entities. Kudos to those who know why I tossed Sir Pelleas into the mix. 

**ACT III:** Salazar Slytherin, of course, belongs to JK Rowling. Matilda of England was a real person, however, and did spend several years at war with her cousin Stephen of Blois fighting for the English crown. She was the granddaughter of William the Conqueror by his second son Henri Beauclerc (Henry I) and was indeed her father's choice of successor (the lords of the land did swear to her father to accept her as their sovereign). And although she was technically queen at one point her extravagance got her run out of town, so to speak. While she never did rule England, Slytherin was right to say she would be the ultimate winner -- it was her son by the Comte d'Anjou, Henry II, who inherited the throne. Henry II wife was Eleanor of Aquitaine, whose exploits and controversy tend to overshadow Matilda. And you may know the Comte by another name -- Plantagenet, Geoffrey Plantagenet. Richard I, Coeur de Lion, and John Lackland (you know, the ones who tend to pop up in the Robin Hood stories?) were Matilda's grandsons and a great many people can claim descent from the Plantagenet line.

**ACT IV:** Rowling created the Montague family, of which Susanna is a member. However, Gaelen Foley created the espionage-minded Marquess of Carnarthen (though I did rename him).

_And that's it! Hope you enjoyed the tale and, if you have questions or comments, just drop me a line._


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